Is Buddhism a religion? Or is it a way of life? This question often arises when people first encounter a Buddhist. But in truth, perhaps it is the wrong question. When the Buddha awakened beneath the Bodhi tree 2,500 years ago, he was not setting out to found a religion. Nor was he building a system of philosophy. He was responding to the cry of the human heart—the longing to be free from suffering.

So if we must begin somewhere, let us begin there—with suffering. For this is where the Buddha began. And it is where his teaching, still living today, continues to meet us. Many have misunderstood this starting point and labeled it pessimistic: “Buddhists believe life is just suffering.” But this is not the case. The Buddha did not say that all of life is suffering; only that suffering is woven through it, like a thread through fabric, and that this suffering can be understood—and released.

He observed a simple truth: no one wants to suffer, and yet people continually act in ways that lead directly to suffering. Why? Because we are confused. We are confused about the nature of reality, about what is truly beneficial and what is truly harmful. Without clarity, we chase shadows, seek permanence in what is impermanent, and feed hunger with that which cannot nourish. And so, in our confusion, we plant the very seeds of the suffering we hope to escape.

But the Buddha did not stop at diagnosis. He discovered a path—a way of life, of practice—that gradually lessens confusion, lightens the heart, and opens the possibility of complete freedom. It is not an escape, but an awakening. Not a retreat from life, but the full flowering of it. A peace not dependent on conditions. A joy untouched by the winds of gain and loss.

And this path, this radical turning inward, is not only for the individual. The Buddha taught that as we free ourselves from our reactive patterns—our clutching and pushing, our projections and fears—we naturally become a blessing to others. With fewer veils over our eyes, we respond with greater kindness and discernment. We begin to live from wisdom and love. And those who dedicate their lives to walking this path for the benefit of all beings are called Bodhisattvas—noble friends whose compassion flows from clarity, and whose strength lies in their vow to serve.

The Buddha himself was called a Bodhisattva before his full awakening. And he did not create “Buddhism” but simply showed a way out of suffering described in three interwoven strands: ethics, stillness, and wisdom.

Ethics

Ethics or śīla may not be the most popular subject. People often come to Buddhism hoping for peaceful meditation experiences or profound insights about the nature of reality, not a discussion of everyday conduct. But this is unfortunate. Because from the very beginning, the Buddha insisted that without a foundation of ethical integrity, no lasting transformation is possible.

This is not about external judgment, nor about obeying rules for fear of punishment. True ethical living is the fruit of discernment. We begin to notice that our actions and words carry echoes. Harshness breeds agitation. Dishonesty disturbs the mind. By contrast, kindness, generosity, and truthfulness bring a quiet joy—a sense of alignment, a heart free of remorse.

To live ethically is to live with a clear conscience. And that clarity is a kind of freedom. We stop second-guessing ourselves. We no longer have to brace for the fallout of unskillful choices. Life becomes simpler. Lighter. Not perfect, but happy.

The Buddha outlined five precepts: not to kill, not to steal, not to misuse sexuality, not to lie, and not to intoxicate the mind. These are not commandments. They are commitments—lines we choose not to cross, for the sake of our own peace and the peace of others. They are gifts we offer the world: assurance that we will not harm or deceive.

Stillness

The second aspect of the path is stillness—samādhi. This is where meditation and mindfulness comes in. This is where we learn to become quiet and steady. Stillness supports ethics, and ethics supports stillness. The more mindful we become, the more we catch ourselves before reacting blindly. And the more we live skillfully, the more settled our minds become.

At first, meditation is a training. We set aside time to sit quietly, to pay attention, to meet the moment as it is. There are many methods—some involve chanting, others are silent. Some use the breath, others use inquiry. The form is less important than the function: to gently train our body, hearts and minds so that they become unified and supportive of our and other’s well-being.

With stillness, we begin to see clearly. We notice the endless swirl of thoughts, the tug of emotions, the stories we tell. And with time, we learn to let them pass without clinging. We touch the present moment—not as an idea, but as a living reality. And we find that it is enough. The present moment, it turns out, can be a place of great peace.

We stop this “pursuit of happiness.” And we begin to discover that we can just be happy and content. This comes not from getting what we want, but from appreciating what we have and letting go.

But this is not always easy. In fact, meditation can feel like it’s making things worse. Suddenly we are face-to-face with our own minds, and what we see may be messy. But this is not a failure. It is the beginning of honesty. And with patience, the storm quiets. Not because we force it to, but because we stop feeding it.

Wisdom

The final strand of the path is wisdom—prajñā. Wisdom means seeing things as they are.  

According to the Buddha, at the very root of all of our suffering is ignorance: We misinterpret the way things are and how the world works, and that's why we make choices that lead to suffering. If we knew better, we would do what leads to true happiness and avoid that which leads to suffering. This applies to the coarsest level of our delusion (for example, when we overeat and then get a stomachache, or when we enter a toxic relationship thinking it will make us happy), down to very subtlest layers of the way our minds are functioning: “I’m an isolated individual separate from everything else.” 

Wisdom is not some secret knowledge. It is the undoing of our mistaken certainties. It begins with ordinary insight: we eat too much and feel sick; we fall into the same arguments; and we chase approval. We suffer, not because we are fated, but because we have not yet seen clearly and acted accordingly. And gradually, with practice, our seeing becomes more refined and subtle.

We begin to notice how the sense of a separate “me” arises. How we dress up our bodies to impress others and cling to our own point of view. But when we observe our experience, we realize that our bodies, feeling, thoughts, and opinions are just passing phenomena—not possessions, but processes. This insight is not a denial of self, but a softening of self-importance.

We see others not as obstacles or means to our ends (me getting what I want!), but as fellow beings, equally fragile, wishing to be happy. This gives rise to unconditional loving-kindnes—not as an abstract ideal, but as a result of clarity. Compassion naturally flows out of wisdom.

Wisdom can only be developed through direct experience. Reading and reasoning are very useful to get us started on the path, but they are not enough to change the deep prejudices and habitual delusions. That is why Buddhism is a practice that has to be engaged in in order to experience the fruits. 

The ultimate realization of penetrating wisdom and boundless love may seem far away, but the Buddha famously taught that the path is "beautiful in the beginning, beautiful in the middle, and beautiful in the end." So even small steps, sincerely taken, bring well-being and freedom. Even partial clarity brings relief. 

And in the end, this path is not about going anywhere, rather it is discovering that we have everything with us already.